


On the Subject of Crests and Young Love

by gghero



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), First Love, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 15:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghero/pseuds/gghero
Summary: Through meticulous observation and experimentation, Caspar had reached the conclusion that he absolutely despised Crests.





	On the Subject of Crests and Young Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Dani for betareading this, ily!!! <3
> 
> Caspar is an emotionally intelligent person, you can't change my mind!!! He knows he has Feelings for Linhardt but he is still trying to figure out what that attraction means for him, for both of them, in context. Also Hanneman adopts yet another child and he looowkey knows whats up bc you cant convince me this man is straight. Hope you like this!
> 
> (Note: Linhardt is nonbinary, he uses he/him pronouns in this fic and generally considers himself masc-aligned)

Through meticulous observation and experimentation, Caspar had reached the conclusion that he absolutely _ despised _Crests.

And by ‘meticulous observation and experimentation’, it meant he had been staring at the dusty pages of an old book for _ hours _.

Perusing a number of volumes in the library was the last thing he expected himself to be doing on a such a beautiful Sunday. The Wyvern Moon was the ideal time of the year to dedicate himself to his training—it was clear outside, and it was finally chilly enough that he could work out under the sun without boiling alive. Not to mention that, with the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion, everyone was raring to give it their all.

Instead of sparring with Raphael, or even doing odd jobs around the monastery with Ashe, though, he had decided that for some Goddess-forsaken reason he wanted to spend his free day with his nose stuck in a book. 

“Perseverance, Caspar, perseverance is the key!” Professor Hanneman said, smiling at him with sympathetic eyes. “Is there anything you are having trouble understanding?”

“Uh, no, I’m fine!” he said, nervously shifting on his chair.

Next to Linhardt, Hanneman was perhaps the most knowledgeable Crest scholar in all of Garreg Mach. Possibly, in the entirety of Fódlan. At least, that was how Caspar saw it. 

He did not personally know him as a teacher, or as a person, but Linhardt always spoke great things about him. Caspar _ had _been half-expecting to be turned down when he had visited him in his office the previous day, requesting a private tutoring session on Crestology. To his surprise, the kindly professor had time to spare, and had seemed more than happy to assist him in his ‘most admirable pursuit of knowledge’, or something to that effect.

Caspar had not known where to begin, so Hanneman had suggested starting by reading about the Ten Elites of old, since Caspar was already familiar with Relics. He fidgeted with the corner of a page, scrunching up his nose.

What did Linhardt find so fascinating about Crests, anyways? 

His friend truly was an odd one. He closed his eyes, and imagined him sitting across the table, on an unoccupied chair laden with books. He would have more fun with Linhardt there, but enjoying his company would mean that he would not accomplish anything he had set out to do. 

As of late, he had been noticing how… _ distracting _Linhardt was. 

When reading about topics that interested him, Linhardt would trade that dazed look in his face for a much more intense, focused expression—lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed. Caspar could perfectly picture the way his eyes would glint as he took notes, spouting technical jargon that Caspar could not follow. He was smitten with the way his eyelashes fluttered when he blinked, the way his rosy lips parted as he spoke. 

There were two problems with that.

Problem number one—Caspar had ‘feelings’ for his best friend.

He did not know when it had happened, or how. He did not even know when he had realised. He simply _ knew _ . He could feel it in his gut, and his instincts were never, _ ever _ wrong.

But calling it love felt _ inadequate _. Caspar had discreetly asked Ashe for romantic advice, and his friend had read out loud his favorite romantic passages. Caspar had been unconvinced. The way his novels portrayed love was absolutely ridiculous, and nothing like the way Caspar felt about Linhardt. 

Maybe things would get different when he got older? He did not know. Adults were weird. 

Or maybe the issue was that Linhardt was not a girl. Then again, he was not a boy, either—

He felt a headache incoming, as was usually the case when he tried to put a name to the way that Linhardt made him feel. He wanted to scream, just get it off his chest. Caspar shut his eyes, and breathed in and out, trying to remain calm—the last thing he wanted was to cause a scene in the quiet library. His heartbeat rang so loudly in his ears, he was convinced the other students could hear, but looking at the open tome helped him steady himself.

The words in the book had stopped making sense a while ago, but at least, he could pretend to read. His thoughts began to wander again as he turned the page.

That reminded him of problem number two, and perhaps more pressing than the other—Caspar had reached the conclusion that he was simply too dull, and that Linhardt was boring of him. 

Even if he did not understand what was so exciting about the subject of Crests, he enjoyed listening to Linhardt ramble. He also enjoyed looking at him. And, really, he just enjoyed _ being _ with him, that much he was certain of.

But as of late, Caspar had noticed his friend was behaving _ oddly _. When listening to him, Caspar would usually nod sheepishly, or look at him in awe, and Linhardt normally did not mind that he did not have much to say. That was simply not the case anymore; now, when Linhardt caught him making eyes at him, he simply sighed and averted his eyes and resumed his reading in silence.

His chest felt heavy. He knew he was not bright. He _ did _take pride in being a hard worker—he persevered against the most arduous assignments, and always managed to scrape by with passable marks—but everyone else in the Black Eagle house, and especially that lazy genius he called his best friend, always managed to figuratively run circles around him, at least when it came down to their theoretical exams.

Linhardt even had the _ audacity _ of falling asleep in the middle of class, and he still managed to easily ace all of his tests. Caspar was confident that his friend would be able to surpass the likes of Lysithea or Annette, if he ever applied himself fully.

His feelings were not of jealousy. He admired Linhardt’s intellect, he really did. And because he did, he felt like his friend deserved more than he could give to him. Caspar felt like all he was good at was punching, swinging his axe, and giving Linhardt reasons to worry.

He snapped out of it, shaking his head and realizing that several other students were eyeing him with malice. Perhaps he was bouncing his leg too loudly. The floorboards were a little creaky under the table he had chosen to sit on. He lowered his head. At least, Professor Hanneman did not seem bothered by his presence.

It did not matter. He could not focus.

Caspar inhaled sharply, gluing his eyes to the page. He had read the same paragraph over and over almost twenty times and he still found himself having to restart halfway through, in realization that he was not processing what was being said. 

Some mention of blood caught his eye. Blood. Linhardt hated blood. 

The tome spoke at length about the Ten Elites, but mentioned the Four Saints as a footnote, referencing a different volume for more information on their Crests.

“Professor Hanneman, this one here is Linhardt’s Crest, right?” he said, pointing at a small illustration of a sigil he recognized all too well. Hanneman nodded, a slight smile in his face. 

“Ah, yes. Of course,” he briefly commented, more to himself than in answer to Caspar’s question. “A Minor Crest of Cethleann, yes. A wonderful blessing was bestowed upon your friend, did you know?”

“Ah-huh,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. 

He had experienced its effects firsthand. Linhardt had a natural gift for healing and helping others, but sometimes, his spells felt even more invigorating than usual.

He remembered the first time his friend’s Crest had manifested. They were eight, and they were playing in the gardens of the Hevring Estate. Their pretend game where Caspar was a courageous knight and Linhardt was a damsel in distress had come to a halt when they had noticed that the Hevring’s pet cat had made her way up a tree, and was unable to get down. Caspar had rushed to the rescue—no hesitation. A real mission was far more interesting than a pretend game, anyways!

He had swiftly climbed up the tree, and he could still remember Linhardt’s whining. Unfortunately, the branch the cat clung to was rotten, and was not able to support Caspar’s weight. The cat deftly landed on its feet without getting hurt, but the little boy had crashed _ hard _, and when he tried to stand up, he realised his arm was bent the wrong way.

Linhardt had panicked in a way Caspar had never seen before, but he steeled himself and rushed to his side. He had begun his Faith magic lessons not long ago, and was not confident in his abilities, but he felt like he had to do _ something _. Caspar was sobbing—his elbow hurt so much. Linhardt placed a soothing hand against his skin, and closed his eyes, focusing. A strange symbol flashed before their eyes for a moment as Linhardt cast his spell, and he would have missed it were it not for the fact that Caspar noticed, and stopped crying immediately, relief washing over his body as Linhardt's small hands glowed.

There was not much he could do about the dislocated joint, but the magic helped erase the pain and reduce the swelling. After the scare, Caspar had calmed down and they were able to walk to the manor to get him fixed.

He thought about that memory, his heart fluttering in his chest. Even as he scolded him for being reckless, or complained about Caspar being a troublemaker, Linhardt had always been there to help him get back on his feet when everything hurt and the sky looked grim. He thought fondly about every little moment they shared. The gentle touch of his hands. The familiar glint in his hazy, dark blue eyes.

Linhardt made him feel warm. 

Linhardt made him feel safe.

Caspar stood up, inspired, book in hand, and strided towards the bookcases that lined the walls. He triple-checked the references for the title of the book, and its author, and finally found the volume he was looking for, neatly shelved away in the section about the Church of Seiros.

He padded over to the table and opened the book, carefully looking for the page that interested him. A portrait of a beautiful young maiden adorned the cover of the chapter dedicated to Saint Cethleann. She was really beautiful, and at first glance, he thought he was gazing at a picture of little Flayn. Caspar rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, and he was feeling tired—he must be imagining things. 

He glanced at her once more before turning the page, and brushed his fingers over a sketch of her Crest. He took a piece of paper, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and started copying the drawing. Then, he read. He read, and read, and copied the fragments he thought were interesting. He made annotations of his own on the margins of his paper. Observations about Linhardt, about the way he healed, in relation to what he was reading.

Everything, absolutely everything he had noticed about him in the ten odd years they had been friends.

“Professor Hanneman,” Caspar spoke once he was satisfied with his notes. “I was wondering, what makes a Crest do… well, do its thing? Is it random?”

“That I wish I could answer, my boy,” Hanneman said, lifting his gaze from the exams he had busied himself with while Caspar read. “There are a number of theories, but at present, scholars cannot quite reach a consensus on the matter.”

“Do you think Crests can—ah, nevermind. This is stupid.” Caspar lowered his gaze. It would be presumptuous to think that his theory could have any merit, if even the brightest minds in all of Fódlan butted heads over the matter.

To his surprise, Hanneman shook his head. “No, no, it is quite alright. Go ahead, say what you think.”

Caspar inhaled. “Well. I just think that Crests are somehow linked to strong emotions. I remember Linhardt told me Crests are in a person’s blood. And—you know when you blush and your cheeks go red? It's because all the blood goes to your face. And when you are scared, your heart starts to race and you can feel it pounding in your chest. Well, I think that maybe, maybe something similar must happen with Crests.” 

“That is, essentially, what one of those theories postulates, yes!” Hanneman exclaimed, chuckling at Caspar's eloquency. “It has been difficult to back these claims with empirical data, however. As Crests lend their power to their bearer in the midst of frantic combat—and considering there is a lot at stake in death-or-life situations—the records that exist are, well, inconclusive. However, scholars who subscribe to this theory are currently focusing on studying Crests that manifest when using White Magic—Lamine, Cethleann. Healing an ally is quite different from fighting against a foe, after all.”

“White Magic, got it,” said Caspar, tapping his chin with his index finger while scribbling down some notes. “One last question,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically meek. “Out of all those theories you mentioned exist… do you… know which one Linhardt likes the most?”

“Caspar,” Hanneman said, “why don’t you go ask your friend, yourself?” A fond smile appeared on his face as the young boy’s eyes widened. “It is a scholar’s duty to compare and contrast the results of their research with their peers, after all,” he added, fixing his monocle and trying his best to sound professional.

“R-right!” he said, brushing his hand against the back of his head, flustered. 

Their study session came to an end shortly thereafter. Caspar had not realized how fast the sky had darkened, and sure enough, the library had slowly emptied without him noticing. Caspar felt like he did not get much done, but he cheered himself up by thinking about showing Linhardt his research. He piled the books he would be borrowing and trudged his way outside, slow and steady.

Caspar thought about visiting Linhardt in his bedroom. In reality, he had no idea where his friend had been or what he had been doing, but as he had not seen him visit the library in all day, that significantly reduced the list of places to search.

He passed the Officer’s Academy and approached the gates to the training grounds when he noticed two figures near the great doors. It was too dark to see clearly, but they seemed to be speaking to each other. The sword on one of them gave off a familiar red glow.

Catherine was speaking to the other individual. Someone tall, and very thin, he noticed, squinting as he approached. Their bob looked disheveled, dark green hair all over the place.

“Linhardt?!” Caspar exclaimed, awkwardly balancing his books as he barrelled towards the pair. He looked at Linhardt, then at Catherine. Then his eyes zeroed in on Thunderbrand’s hilt. “What’s the matter. A-are you in trouble?” he cautiously said, instinctively jumping in front of Linhardt.

The woman laughed heartily, Caspar eyeing her as Linhardt let out a sigh.

“Aye, boy, I was about to smite him for his crimes!” she roared dramatically, an easy smile on her face. Linhardt let out a little chuckle, but Caspar did not find the situation funny. He hid his face behind the stack of books. “Well, I’ll be seeing you two around,” she said, patting Linhardt and Caspar on the back as she passed them by, walking in the direction of the main building.

“What was all that about?” Caspar said.

“Good evening to you too, Caspar. Where are you going with these?” Linhardt said, grabbing the book on top of the pile. “‘Crests of the Four Saints of the Church of Seiros?’” he read, arching an eyebrow.

“Ah, give that back!” Caspar exclaimed, flustered. He freed one of his hands, holding all of his books in one hand and keeping them in place under his chin. He swiped at Linhardt, who dodged his clumsy efforts as he calmly read the preamble. Caspar swung at him fast, hoping to catch him off guard, and finally lost his balance when he missed him. All of the volumes fell to the floor. “Great, look what you made me do!” he said, getting on his knees and hastily gathering his reading material. 

Linhardt glanced at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Sorry.” He knelt in front of his friend and helped him clean up the mess. 

When both reached for the same book, Caspar noticed Linhardt’s hands.

“Ah! L-Lin, you're hurt!” he squeaked. His knuckles were scraped and a little swollen, dry blood caking his porcelain skin. Not only that, but now that he looked at him better, his face was flushed, and strands of green hair stuck to his cheeks and his forehead. “So you _ were _in trouble! Did you get into a fight? Who are they?! Oh, I’ll show them, I’ll—”

Linhardt pouted, neatly arranging the books for easier transportation. “Calm down, it's nothing like that. I was just… Caspar, what do suppose people do at the training grounds?”

“Well, people usually _ train _ in the _ training _grounds,” he sassed back, standing up with his books on his hand. “My Linhardt, on the other hand—”

“—was training too, obviously,” he sighed, slightly annoyed.

“Oh.” There was a stunned silence for a moment as they moseyed towards Linhardt's dormitory—they had silently agreed to each carry half of the original stack. Caspar spoke again after descending a flight of stairs. “Wait, huh?”

“You still haven't answered my question, though. What were you doing in the library?” Linhardt pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, and Caspar’s heart fluttered. He then watched him fish for the key to his room, and both went in together. 

“Well, _ Linhardt _, what do you suppose people do at the library?” he replied, mocking his friend’s tone. Linhardt rolled his eyes, but the little smile in his face betrayed him. “I was doing some… research,” Caspar added mysteriously as he sat on the bed and opened the book about Saint Cethleann. He took out the papers where he had been taking notes. Linhardt examined his handwriting and his drawings in awe for a couple of minutes, the smile on his face growing wider and wider as he reached the bottom of the page. Caspar awaited with bated breath.

“Caspar, this is… this is very good,” he commented, looking at him in the eyes. There it was again. That gleam in his dark blue irises. Caspar felt his stomach tingle.

“Alright, you have your answer. It's your turn now. Why were you training—”

“Crestology, though?” asked Linhardt, deflecting again. Caspar groaned, but then Linhardt's tone changed. “I couldn’t have possibly imagined you would be interested in this. I do talk a lot about Crests, right? My blathering must be boring to tears.”

He hugged his knees, averting his eyes, and Caspar almost choked on his own spit. “Excuse me? Linhardt, where did you get that idea from?!” he asked, mentally kicking himself. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Well, with a bit of luck, Linhardt would never have to know that Caspar had reached the same conclusion.

“Well,” Linhardt replied, his pale cheeks flushed. “You get this… dopey look in your eyes whenever I speak about my research.”

“Oh, I… I do?” Caspar laughed, feigning ignorance. Crap. It must be really bad if both _ himself _ and _ Linhardt _, of all people, had noticed. He cleared his throat, quickly recovering. “Well! It’s as I said! I don’t know much about the stuff you like to talk about. I wanted to learn more so that next time, I could impress you with my knowledge!” 

“Caspar… is that how you feel?”

“Of course! You're so intelligent, and so, so smart, and I’m—I’m _ not _—”

“Caspar.”

“—and there’s so many people here you could be best friends with, but you are stuck with me—”

“_ Caspar _,” Linhardt repeated, raising his voice only slightly. It worked like a charm. He stopped his verbal onslaught, and focused on the sight of his best friend. Deep breaths, just like he had taught him. He was in control of his thoughts, not the other way around. Linhardt was staring off pensively, as if trying to choose the right words he needed to hear. “I am not ‘stuck with you’. You’ve seen me run away from Ferdinand, have you? I have long legs. You really think I couldn’t give you the slip if I wanted?” 

Caspar sniffled and let out a little chuckle. Linhardt did have very long legs.

“The way your mind works—astounds me. In the best sense of the word,” he added. “You're smarter and more unique than you give yourself credit for. As for our differences in interests, think of it this way. My passion for Crests might well be another fleeting interest of mine. But you? Well. I don’t think I could ever tire of you.”

Caspar felt as though an arrow had just pierced straight through his chest. His heart was beating a mile a second, and Linhardt smiled at him with his eyes, clutching his notes. For a moment, he thought he saw him inch closer. His throat felt dry. Linhardt's face looked so kissable, it was making him feel dizzy. 

He instinctively leaned in, slow, shy. Linhardt did not move much. He tipped his head pensively, and gazed at him with curious eyes. Caspar placed his shaky hands over Linhardt's—

“Ouch,” Linhardt said, grimacing in pain. As if struck by a bolt of lightning, Caspar winced and backed off. He was not sure how his face had not melted yet, with how hot his cheeks felt. 

“Ah, Lin, I forgot—we have to get that patched up,” he stammered. Linhardt said nothing as Caspar mechanically jumped up, dug around in the bottom drawer of his dresser, and returned with a tub of healing balm and a yard of clean bandages. He had seen Linhardt do it a thousand times, he was sure he could do it too. He scooped way more lotion than was necessary, and in silence, he began slathering Linhardt's sore hands with the stuff. He looked up, and smiled at his friend nervously, as if seeking approval. He simply nodded.

“Hey, Linhardt. I think I know now why you were training,” Caspar finally said as he bandaged him up. Linhardt inhaled sharply.

“You do?”

“You remember the last battle, right?”

“That mage came out of nowhere,” Linhardt said, almost in a defensive tone. “I was completely spent. Couldn’t have possibly willed the tiniest spark into existence.”

“I ended up taking a huge hit,” said Caspar, rubbing the back of his neck. He could still feel the acute pain of dark magic coursing through his veins, like he had just been stabbed by a thousand—no, a _ million _ —tiny needles. “I know what _ I _would have done if it had been the other way around, if they had targeted you instead. I know I would have charged and taken her down. I’d probably have jumped in front of you.”

“So reckless. You _ are _ aware that I can take magic attacks better than you can,” Linhardt sighed. “And yet… I did nothing.”

“You were unarmed, Linhardt! You can't even throw a punch. And, don’t take this personally, but you’re not the fastest, either. _ And _ , your reflexes _ suck _. My grandmother could—”

“Okay, okay, I get your point,” Linhardt said, annoyed.

“And that’s why you want to become stronger!” Caspar said. Linhardt's eyes widened in surprise. Bullseye. “Just how I want to be more like you, you want to be more like me,” he said boldly. “Except that books and combat are in no way the same thing, so cut that out, and stay out of trouble okay?” he said, pinching his arm as Linhardt complained.

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to rush into battle swinging an axe,” he said, pouting and rubbing his arm. “This is just for self-defense.” He paused and looked at his own hands. The pain was mostly gone, but the evidence of his hard work was still there. “It is as you said. The Western Church, Flayn, the Death Knight. Scary things have been happening, Caspar. And I’m worried it’s only going to get worse from here on out.”

Caspar mulled over his words. There was a stark contrast between the nervousness hidden behind Linhardt’s words, and the calm way that he spoke and carried himself. But Caspar would not be able to call himself his best friend if he were not able to tell when his friend was feeling overwhelmed.

He grabbed his hand, and turned it around. 

“Lin. It’s going to be okay,” he said, rubbing circles on the palm of Linhardt’s hand. “You stick with me, and I’ll keep you safe. So… let’s watch each other’s backs.”

Linhardt sniffled, and nodded quietly. “As long as you don’t stray too far. I adamantly _ refuse _to follow your pace.”

Caspar chuckled. Yes, that was more like the Linhardt he knew.

“Sorry, no can do!”

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally ended up including a lot of Crest lore in this, I did my research so I hope it is accurate or at least that the stuff I added on my own doesn't contradict canon sjhsjhdfgsd
> 
> Hope you liked it!! I love kudos and comments!!!! <3


End file.
